Every one I know in a long term relationship has a BIF- the bad influence friend. The fiance’ is no different. His bartending years yielded his BIF- a wonderful guy who is guaranteed to suggest they take a road trip to Manhattan on a day’s notice, go camping after a night of cocktailing, take phone numbers at the bar on a dare, gamble their paychecks on a poker machine, and in general act like 22 year olds with no responsibility any time. Luckily, the fiance’ is only rarely susceptible to the BIF’s charms. This has kept me from wringing BIF’s neck on occassion.
BIF is moving. From Pittsburgh to California. And I saw it coming. But tonight was BIF’s going away. The fiance’ found that out only today and promised BIF a drink. Or three. Or five. I met the fiance’ for post-work happy hour which led to phone calls to BIF and late night plans. Because BIF and I have never been buddies, I offered to come home and send the fiance’ and BIF out alone. And the fiance’ stayed out until six a.m. for enough cocktails to kill a small horse.
(But I can smile about it. Ding dong, the BIF is gone! California, hold onto your hats….)